Out of the Grave
by Elasel Nevar
Summary: Graves is a man who earned his rest long ago, during the Third Era. Whiletrapped in the Void, living the rest of his afterlife in a state of boredom, he is pulled back to Tamriel, only to find the land of Skyrim being torn asunder. What can a dead man do against dragons, a civil war, and a "hero" that seems to want nothing but power? Experimental. Please give feedback.
1. Out of the Grave

**Disclaimer:** Skyrim is the property of Bethesda. I make no money from writing this and I only do it for my own amusement and in order to practice my writing.

* * *

**Nevar:** Welcome to the reboot of my old, unfinished fic "The Story of Nito." This story is vastly different from my old one, although there are similarities between them. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed crafting it.

**In case you're unfamiliar with Potema Septim, who plays a big role in my main character's history**, let me tell you a little bit about her. You can also learn this by reading the in-game book series called "The Wolf Queen." Potema is encountered in-game during 2 quests you receive in Solitude's Blue Palace.

Potema Septim, probably better known as the Wolf Queen, was the daughter of Emperor Pelagius Septim, and she ruled over Skyrim from Solitude during the Third Era. This was long before the Oblivion Crisis. Her olders brothers had both become Emperor at some point after their father's death, but the throne passed to Potema's niece when her elder brother died. Angry, Potema and her son Uriel Septim III (no, not the one in Oblivion) went back to Skyrim and began to rebel.

Her son was able to conquer the Empire after a long campaign that came to be known as the War of the Red Diamond. However, Emperor Uriel III was captured in battle by his uncle Cephorus Septim. He was to be taken to the Imperial City to be put on trial, but an angry mob attacked on the way, killing Uriel III. It was decided that Cephorus would become the next Emperor.

This is where Potema becomes branded as pure evil. Upon learning of her son's demise, she summoned Daedra from Oblivion and reanimated the corpses of her enemies. She sent attack after attack on the Imperial Legion until she finally died after a month-long siege on Solitude, at which point all of her human subjects had abandoned her, making the only inhabitants of Solitude her undead forces.

* * *

There was a saying that a man who lived life to the fullest would face death with no fear. Of course, all these sayings came from the lips of men who had yet to comprehend _just_ how boring death really was.

Graves was a dead man. He might have smiled, if he could, about how that one line made him sound like the tragic hero of an old song or long. Such fancies could not have been further from the truth. He had faced death twice in his existence, and could say he hated it.

He couldn't even remember the first time; though he was willing to bet it had been a mundane death, likely by plague or some other sickness. Whenever that had been, it was too long ago. What he did remember, however, clear as crystal in his mind, was the second.

He had been a general in the Wolf Queen's army. Her true army, of course, the one that stood by her even as her enemies assaulted Solitude on their way to kill her. Graves would never forget that day...

_The forces of Emperor Cephorus Septim were at the walls of Solitude; a tree had been cut down and was being used to ram the gates. Graves had stood on the roof of the Emperor's Tower, the irony not at all lost to him, wearing a leather hood and a tattered fur cloak. The Tower wasn't the tallest structure in the city, but it was the tallest one that happened to have an excellent view of the gates. He'd held in each skeletal hand a staff imbued with magic. In his left had been a Staff of Fireballs, while his other hand clutched a Staff of Zombies. A spare of the former was slung across his back. He'd learned very early in his unlife that, as a skeleton, he was absolutely __**terrible**__at casting any spells since his body seemed to naturally resist magic. Potema herself had chosen him as a general at first due to the sheer difficulty of reanimating him. He was, however, an excellent climber, acrobat, and marksman. While the staves worked better for someone who could actually do magic, they certainly allowed him to dish out more punishment against an army than any bow and arrow ever could. _

_He could see even at that distance that the gate was about to crumble. Silently, he prepared to launch a Fireball. The area around the gate had been coated in a scentless, flammable poison he'd prepared the previous night. The siege had been going on for a month, and the forces of Cephorus Septim had only gotten to the final gate after struggling past an army of Potema's undead over several weeks. Graves had hoped they could stall a bit longer. He knew the humans couldn't have lasted another week from a lack of supplies. He'd been the one who'd suggested sabotaging the supply lines, after all._

_The gate finally broke, and the Imperial Legion flooded in like water from a broken dam. Of course, water didn't quite burn as easily as Legion soldiers. A great ball of fire flew from the tip of the staff in his hand, sailing over the structures where thousands of his brethren lay in wait. He felt a grim satisfaction as the Imperials at the front of the wave stopped in their tracks as they realized their fate. It was too late, however, as the fools in the back continued to push forward for the Emperor. The carpet of liquid caught flame, painting a good chunk of the city in dancing red and purple and orange, and the soldiers of the Emperor along with it. It looked as if the very jaws of Oblivion had erupted to life in order to defend the Wolf Queen. The toxic smoke that rose from it was an excellent bonus, as well. Satisfied with his handiwork, he loosed a Magelight spell into the sky- the signal to attack._

A tugging sensation interrupted his dreaming. His eyes, if they were still there, revealed nothing different to him. His soul still floated in the Void- that dark realm where the Daedric Princes and Sithis resided in. He could feel the pull becoming slowly stronger. The feeling was familiar, somehow, even though he couldn't remember when he'd had it before. As the suction grew in force, he began to feel two things that he hadn't felt in ages: panic and excitement.

* * *

Vivette sat cross-legged on the grassy plains of Whiterun Hold. As much as she considered Fellglow Keep her home, she preferred to practice her art outside whenever the weather was fair. The female Breton mentally prepared herself for the task of controlling multiple undead through the power of the Ritual stone, the blessing of which she'd taken the previous day. An assortment of skeletons littered the ground about her, some of which she'd procured during their exodus from Winterhold. Bodies, she'd found, were only as powerful as their owners. She'd taken much effort to attempt raising each of the bodies she'd collected with spells of various levels. None of the bodies surrounding her presently could be resurrected with Adept-level spells, which were the strongest she could cast. The Conjurers she shared a room with often laughed at the limitations of Necromancy. When she revived these mighty warriors, she would see who would be laughing.

Pushing herself up to stand, the Necromancer began to channel the blessing that had been given to her: the familiar blue energy of reanimation began to erupt around her, although she didn't feel any different on the inside. It seemed that the borrowed power was not quite as satisfying as raising the dead with her own will. She could only faintly feel the minds of the skeletons around her, each one hesitant but willing to serve. While she would never admit it, she was glad for it. The strain of controlling so many would have proven too much. She wondered how the great Necromancers of the Third Era had managed, hundreds of years past. One by one, the skeletons began to pull themselves together, and to their feet. Vivette smiled. It was not as satisfying as she'd thought it would be, but that would change once she'd had these strong warriors of ages past break a few of her roommates' Atronachs. In her excitement, she'd failed to notice the one skeleton that had yet to stand.

* * *

Graves could feel it before he could see it. He had body parts where he'd had none for so long. The feeling in them was incredibly dampened, of course, as he had no skin, but all Necromancy spells gave their targets a semblance of touch. His bare spine could feel hard, dry soil beneath it. His hands could feel grass brushing against them in the chill breeze. The sun felt like a warm fire after spending so long in the cold dark. Slowly, his sense of sight returned and he could see blue and white and yellow, his gaze directed at the sky and sun above. Out of habit, he attempted to inhale air with organs that simply weren't there. The result was disappointing, but he was so glad to just _be_ there. Questions began to fill his mind where only apathy for the living once reigned. How long had he been dead? What year of the Third Era was it? He very much doubted Potema was still alive, but what had happened? Was the Empire still ruled by the Septim dynasty?

The biggest question, of course, was the first one he voiced.

"Hoo as bro me ba at-" he stopped himself. It had been so long since he'd had a mouth that he'd forgotten how to speak properly. Slightly annoyed, he sat up to get a better idea of where he was.

The first thing he noticed was the young, brown-haired woman in black robes. The skeleton concluded that she must have been a powerful Necromancer, indeed, to have animated _his_ body at such a young age. The girl looked to be only in her late teens, when Potema Septim herself had been well past the age of bearing children when she'd recruited him. What's more, his new mistress seemed quite relaxed and not at all winded by the effort of calling him from beyond the grave. Had he found someone stronger than the Wolf Queen?

The woman must have felt his presence then, as she turned to regard him. She apparently noticed he was of slighter form than most, because a scowl grew on her face, as though disappointed by the fruit of her efforts.

"Do I... not please you, Mistress?" Graves rasped, finding his voice and managing to work his mouth properly. He was quite pleased with that small victory.

"You can talk!" the Necromancer almost screamed.

"My apologies," he said with a bow of his skull. "I'd assumed someone of your power had encountered souls capable of free speech before."

"I'm sorry," the young woman practically whispered. "I- I'm not a very good Necromancer. I just used the power of a standing stone to bring you guys to life."

Graves' eyebrows would have risen in surprise at that if he had them. It was one of those occasions when he was glad he didn't have a face. His expression would have ruined everything. He'd actually heard of a power that could raise the dead which was different from Necromancy, but this information had been from long before. He looked at the woman's face, glad his eyes were but twin orbs without pupils, and saw her ambition. The girl was young, and had not yet lived life fully. Had not yet overcome her fear of _death_. A plan had formed in his mind. He decided to take the risk.

"Do you speak of the Ritual stone?" he asked, making sure to keep his voice as even as he could.

"Yes, exactly that," the young Necromancer said, almost quaking in her boots.

Graves almost considered simply using threats, but how likely was this opportunity to come again? The afterlife was boring, and surely there were still things a walking corpse could do to amuse himself in Tamriel. He decided he needed to be patient with this one. His scheme was already risky enough without letting her catch on.

"Do you know the limitations of the Ritual stone?" he asked, as if he knew and was testing her. In reality, he had no idea whatsoever. It was likely it had some limit, of course. Otherwise all the Necromancers would use it.

"Of course," the girl answered, apparently slowly getting over the shock. "The power only lasts an hour before those raised sleep once more. Then I have to wait a full day before I can call upon it again."

"Indeed," Graves kept his head down and praised her, although he had no idea if that was correct. He could tell she was being honest, though. "My mistress is well learned. Why stop with an hour a day, though?"

"I'm sorry?" the young girl looked surprised. "You mean to tell me you know of a way to break the stone's limits?"

"_Got you," _Graves thought to himself quietly.

"But of course!" the skeleton lifted his bowed head. "All you need is an empty Black Soulgem."

"Is that so?" the girl beamed, in a manner so innocent that Graves almost changed his mind. Not quite, though. "Stay right here! I'll be right back!"

The girl ran off in the direction of an abandoned ruin that the skeleton had previously ignored.

"What a fool," Graves muttered to himself when she was out of earshot. "Don't they teach novices not to trust the things they summon anymore?"

He couldn't believe his luck.

* * *

Vivette couldn't believe her luck.

All her life she'd trained thinking it would take her ages before she could control multiple bodies for more than an hour, and then here came this skeleton with a solution to her problem! She'd always worried she would be wrinkly and old by the time she could command any kind of respectable power, but now doors had opened for her! She entered the Keep quickly, passing the ruined walls that offered no protection whatsoever. Not even the dark atmosphere could dull her euphoria. As she entered the main hall, she took a left, heading towards her room. She'd had an empty Black Soulgem in her trunk in case she ever needed one. Now was certainly one of those times.

In her haste, she failed to notice the ash piles on the floor- the only traces that remained of the other skeletons that she'd ordered to teach her roommate a lesson. She'd nearly made it to her things when she found herself roughly pushed up against a wall. The Breton girl suddenly felt as if she'd been pushed under the ice, to the murky waters below. Almost literally, as she realized that it was a pair of frozen limbs that had pinned her to the wall. The Frost Atronach had no facial features of course, its head being a chunk of ice. Behind it, her Altmer roommate Analmo glared at her as if she'd assaulted him. In a way, she kind of did.

"Do you think that was funny, Half-Elf?" Analmo growled, making the girl tremble in his grasp. "Sending a bunch of weak skeletons to assault me?"

"N-no," Vivette stammered. "It's just you k-keep p-pushing me around!"

"Oh?" the High Elf fumed. "I think you need to learn your place, wench. My ancestors took yours as slaves, in case you've forgotten. And when they took them, I _do_ _mean _they _took_ them."

Analmo closed the distance between them, slipping under the arm of the elemental Daedra that held her. Vivette couldn't see Analor through the icy arm of her captor, but she could feel the Conjurer's hands roughly groping her thigh through her robe.

"W-what are you doing!?" she trembled. "Stop!"

"You know, I had a feeling you were going to say that," Analor stated flatly. "It seems I have _much_ to teach you."

His laughter filled her ears then. It was cruel and, she thought, filled with a dark sort of happiness. It was becoming clear that Analmo had been looking for an excuse to do this, and she'd given him the perfect one: retribution. When a rogue mage hurt another, there were no rules. Injury could be answered with death. Vivette didn't want to die; she had so much more to do! But in the face of Analmo's obvious intentions, she was starting to think dying was the easier way out. Silently, the girl prayed to the Divines for death to come. Maybe the atronach would squeeze to hard and she would suffocate, or maybe she could cast a flame spell and kill both of them... Although given her resilience to magic, that could take a while.

"I was wondering what was taking so long," a voice came, and Vivette looked at the Atronach in shock.

"You can talk!?" she exclaimed.

"This again?" the voice rasped, and she realized it was coming from beyond the Frost Atronach. "I do grow weary of this excrement, Mistress."

That was when she realized the Divines had answered her prayer. Death truly had come, but not for her. She hoped.

* * *

Graves had to physically stop himself from smacking his hand against his skull. On a hunch, he'd followed the girl into the abandoned fort or keep or whatever it was when he realized he had no idea how long the standing stone had been in effect already. He'd come to make sure she would make haste, and it seemed his hunch was correct. The fool girl had gotten herself captured by a rather wimpy Frost Atronach, as well as an ugly Altmer who seemed to be in heat.

"Who dares interrupt me?" a High Elf demanded, turning on him with the arrogance of his ancestors. "I see you have yet another skeleton with you. No matter."

The High Elf snapped his fingers, and the golem-like Daedra dropped the girl and turned to face the skeleton. Graves almost swore, but managed to keep his courteous act up. While he was powerful in his own right, he was unarmed. What was a marksman without a weapon? A dead man. He needed to remember that one next time he needed to be funny, whenever that would be.

His eyes wandered the main hall for something- anything, really, that he could use as a weapon. To his great disappointment, the closest thing he could find that might hurt a Frost Atronach was a torch. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. The entire structure _did_ seem to be inhabited mostly by unsavory characters with an inclination for magic. He grabbed the torch and hurled it at the Frost Atronach, not really expecting it to do anything. The flaming stick, for he might as well have thrown one, had the expected effect on the Atronach. Nothing. It did, however, cause an unfortunate amount of collateral damage to the table it tumbled to after bouncing off of the Daedra. The piece of furniture caught fire, and the chair beside it soon followed, as did the trunk beside that. Maybe not so unfortunate.

"Not in the plan, but I'll take it," he remarked. "Girl, I hope you have some sort of resilience to fire. It's about to get very warm in there."

"You fool!" the Altmer shrieked. "You're going to set everything on fire!"

"You Altmer and your statement of the obvious," the skeleton chuckled darkly.

The Frost Atronach immediately pressed itself to the burning furniture in order to douse the flames. To the Altmer's credit, the crude countermeasure worked. The furniture was black where the fire had spread, but the flames had ceased. However, the Atronach had melted to almost half its mass, becoming smaller than an average man.

The moments after went quickly. Graves tossed a quick Fear spell at the Altmer, to ensure that the fool would stay panicked a little longer. The skeleton's magic was weak, of course, and the spell wouldn't have worked at all if the dumb Elf hadn't already been panicking. Before the Elf could make sense of things, Graves had slipped behind him and coiled two bony arms around his neck.

"Bind his soul!" Graves commanded, momentarily forgetting the role he was playing.

The girl reacted quickly, firing a purple bolt of energy at the High Elf. A moment after it struck, Graves snapped his neck and the Elf fell to the ground with an expression on his face that might have been considered comedic under different circumstances. The Atronach similarly expired, sinking to its knees, no longer bound to the world by a master.

"Are you alright?" Graves asked.

But before she could answer, his body stopped, and everything went dark.

* * *

**Nevar: **Please let me know what you think, especially if there were parts of this that bothered you, or that you found questionable. Thank you.


	2. In the Shadow

**Nevar**: I had some fun writing this chapter, even though there is very little "action" in it. I find I really enjoy writing Graves' flashbacks. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

* * *

"_And if Alduin wins, man is gone from this world._

_Lost in the shadow, of the black wings unfurled."_

_-Excerpt from the Tale of the Tongues_

* * *

Vivette screamed as the skeleton fell to the ground, his (for she presumed it was male, although she couldn't be sure) bones scattered across the wooden floor like pick-up sticks. She'd felt such relief at being saved from Analmo's vile advance, but she'd almost had a heart attack at the sight of her new friend falling to pieces. It was only a minute later, after her breathing had started to calm when she'd realized that the power of the standing stone had simply worn off. The Breton girl took a moment to sit on her bed, allowing her mind to catch up to everything that had happened. It seemed that her control over the bodies she'd animated - _that the Ritual Stone_, she reminded herself - had animated, was limited.

The young Necromancer had assumed that the weak connection to the minds of her skeletons had simply been some kind of safety measure to avoid excessive mental strain. She'd told the corpses to go inside and fight with the Conjurers' Atronachs, but instead the undead had decided to attack her roommate. In retrospect, he might have deserved it, but that didn't make everything alright.

Then there was her new friend_._ The talking skeleton had come to save her from Analmo, as though he'd sensed that she was in danger. The fact that he could talk had shaken her enough, but his impeccable timing made her wonder... Did this one share a special connection to her of some sort? Even as she looked at his now-lifeless skull, she could feel as if this one was _special,_ somehow, and not just because he could talk, either.

She shook her head and decided she would just have to find out. Rising up from the lumpy mattress, she moved to the trunk where she kept her treasures…

* * *

Graves had had a theory. It had been the sole driver of his heroic actions during those final five minutes of his renewed unlife: That perhaps, when people died, they were sent to whichever afterlife suited the actions they performed in life. Karmic retribution, if you would. He'd saved the girl from the elf in the hopes that the Nine or whoever decided where you went after death would put him somewhere less dull.

The all-encompassing darkness and deafening silence before him made it quite clear that his theory was full of crap. He swore, summoning every curse word he could muster, shouting them at the blackness. He'd been so close! He'd been back in Mundus, on Tamriel, in Skyrim, even! He wasn't entirely sure what region of Skyrim he'd come back from, but surely Solitude couldn't have been far. He'd almost made it... Home?

The torrent of foul language he'd been spewing ceased at that thought. Did he really still consider Solitude home, after the countless ages that had passed? Potema was gone, and all his comrades (as mute and dull as they were) with her. _What was so great about living again, anyway?_ He was surely just going to be hunted down by some adventurer bound to "save the world from evil," as though everything were so cut-and-dried.

Then his thoughts drifted to the warmth of the sun on his old bones, the soft touch of the wild grass surrounding his ancient body. He remembered the sight of the sky- like a clear, blue ocean dotted with snow-covered islands. He paused at that thought. Snow-covered islands? The ocean? Why did he have memories of those?

_The docks of Solitude,_ a voice whispered from the back of his mind. Solitude had docks, of course. Trade had flourished before the Wolf Queen drove out everyone that needed to breathe besides herself. He'd seen the ships come and go. No doubt that's where his memories of the sea came from.

He wondered, for there were things to wonder about again: What had become of the Necromancer girl? Surely she would be punished, possibly with death, for killing her fellow mage. She'd seemed like the sort of person who wasn't treated well by her peers in the first place. Graves realized then that he'd never gotten her name.

"Farewell, girl," he tried to speak. "The hour was good while it lasted."

Deciding it would be a while before he was called on again, Graves drowned himself in the memory of his final day in Potema's service once more.

_The Imperial Legion's vanguard was ablaze. Graves could see the soldiers crying out as the fires consumed them like a school of slaughterfish falling upon prey. A chorus of death accompanied the spectacle as every dead body equipped with a bow loosed an arrow. The collective projectiles might have blotted out the sun if it had been up, but it was the middle of the night. There were few in Potema's army that could strike with such precision as Graves could, but corpses didn't need to be able to hit a bull's-eye to hit one of the thousands of soldiers that continued to press on even as they died by the dozens._

_"For the glory of the Emperor and all that," Graves chuckled, not talking to anyone in particular._

_The men of the Empire advanced without pause as the fires began to die down, and Graves could not comprehend what kind of madness drove living men to march so foolishly to their deaths. The defense plan was going as agreed upon. As the wave of soldiers trampled over the remains of the fallen, the Wolf Queen began to raise the dead from afar, sowing chaos in the enemy ranks. It was one thing to charge men in the same uniform as they rose back to their feet in front of you. It was another thing to have men in the same uniform strike you from behind or from the side. After all, in the heat of combat, how would you tell if the man beside you still had a pulse?_

_Turning his gaze back to the gate, he noticed the Legion wasn't satisfied with charging to the afterlife via a single gate. Preparing another Fireball, Graves flung it at the head of a ladder that had appeared from the other side of the wall. The ball of fire flew true and the resulting explosion caused the ladder to fall back to whence it came. The battle was going well, and he couldn't see how his Mistress could lose…_

A familiar pull at his essence woke Graves from his recollection of the past. Was he imagining it? Surely, no one had come to call upon him again so soon. He wasn't some Daedra that could be summoned with some powder and a Soulgem, after all. His body needed to be present to return him to Mundus. But even as he denied the possibility and remained drifting in the shadow, an unseen force seemed to drag him through the darkness.

* * *

Vivette paced nervously on the floor of the room she'd rented for the day. After realizing that the other Conjurers would be after her blood when they discovered that Analmo was dead (not exactly by her hand, she reminded herself, but that wasn't the point), she'd taken her things and packed as quickly as she could. She'd changed into simpler clothing the moment that she was out of sight of Fellglow Keep. Necromancy was technically legal in Skyrim, but there were many groups who still persecuted the practice. The Vigilants of Stendarr, in particular, terrified her. That was why she and the other rogue mages had left the College of Winterhold, after all. The young Breton had always assumed she would be anxious to leave "home" behind, but the others had never treated her with respect, and she began to wonder why she hadn't left earlier. She'd packed, left, changed, and made it all the way to her destination before the sun could come down. _Her destination,_ she mentally repeated, as she looked over her room.

The Sleeping Giant Inn wasn't the grandest of places to spend the night in. She hadn't expected anything fancy from a small town like Riverwood, but she also hadn't come here thinking her room would be just slightly bigger than a cupboard under someone's stairs. It was an actual room, as far as she could tell, but now she could see why it had only cost her ten Septims for a night.

_At least it was better than living inside some ruins,_ she reassured herself.

She cast a nervous glance at the pile of bones that she'd gathered in the center of the room, then to the pile of dust next to it. She'd taken one of her greater treasures- a scroll that would allow her to cast the Dead Thrall spell once- and used it on her skeletal savior. The scroll had disintegrated afterwards, as expected, but the bones had made no move to put themselves together.

"_Had she messed up?" _she thought to herself. She'd been positive that this would work! It was true that there was a limit to how powerful one's Dead Thralls could be, but she figured that if the Ritual Stone could do it, then so could her scroll.

Frustrated, the Breton girl sat down on her bed and folded her knees, curling into a fetal position. What was she going to do if he didn't come back? Maybe there was some work she could do around town? There was a sharp SNAP then, as though something had closed shut. She instantly recognized it as the sound of bone attaching to bone. A smile found its way on her face as the skeleton began to form itself and rise to its full height, surrounded by the pulse of reanimation magic. She held her breath subconsciously as the empty sockets blazed to life with blue fire. Then a rustle came from the locked door, followed by knocking.

"_The Innkeeper!" _she swore silently. "_She'll see him!_"

"Are you alright in there? I heard sounds!"

* * *

It was a wonder how sick one could feel despite not having the proper body parts for such a condition. Graves had felt the familiar touch of Necromancy upon his soul the moment that he'd left the shadows behind. It had taken him less than a second after that to realize that the spell had gone _horribly_ wrong. He'd felt like he was about to throw up everything he'd ever eaten despite not having consumed anything since he'd still had flesh. Nor did he even have a stomach that could be sick, for that matter. There was a ringing in ears that he didn't have, and his vision swam with a rainbow of colors that might have come from the mind of a Skooma addict. What manner of _incompetence_ did it take to miscast a reanimation spell, let alone one that required at least months of practice before it could even be casted? Graves stopped wondering shortly after. He felt like he could guess the answer to that query.

"I'm just practicing my Alteration magic!" Vivette called out to the Innkeeper on the other side of the door. "Sorry! Didn't realize Oakflesh could be so loud! No need to worry!"

"I think I'd better have a look inside," the older woman answered. "I insist. I'd rather not have the Thalmor coming in to investigate the premises."

"_Shit," _Vivette muttered under her breath. The skeleton had just reformed and still looked like he'd been whacked on the head by an invisible hammer. In desperation, she waved her hand in front of its eyes. No response. _"Damn."_

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to insist you open this door," the Innkeeper said. "I knocked because I respect your privacy, but I'm going to assert my authority as owner of this establishment by coming inside anyway."

Panicked, Vivette searched the room quickly for _anything _that could have hidden her friend.

* * *

Graves was sorely disappointed when the magic-induced vertigo had loosened its grip on him. Not by the fact that he was feeling a little better, of course, but by the sight before him: He'd expected to wake up somewhere sunny and warm again, but instead he was faced with more blackness. Had the summoning of his soul failed? Had he been returned to the realm of the unliving? His hopes had risen that perhaps he would be able to return to the world where things actually happened again, even if only for a short while. Sadly, it seemed it was his fate to be subjected to the dullness of the Void for a while longer.

He'd nearly given up hope when a light appeared in the dark- a single ray of brightness in a sea of inky black. The shine then began to grow brighter and wider, as if opening a path to his salvation.

"_Was this it?"_ he wondered. Had the gods finally decided he could spend eternity somewhere less dark, and dull, and boring? He stretched out his left arm, reaching out for the dawn- and almost fell to the floor.

Standing before him was the Necromancer girl that he'd rescued before, what felt like so many years in the past. Perhaps it was fitting that she would be the one to welcome him to this new afterlife. Her hand was open- an invitation to join her in this new world. He reached for her hand.

"Welcome back," the girl beamed at him.

Graves' hand stopped mid-way. Had he heard her correctly? He was sure he'd never been to a different afterlife before. He certainly would have remembered. His eyes scanned this heaven. It was rather dark, and small (and cheap-looking, by the look of the furniture). It looked nothing like how they depicted Sovngarde in the old songs. Carefully, he lowered one bony foot to the wooden floor, followed by the other as he exited the passage to the dark world.

"And where, exactly, _is_ this?" he asked, trying not to sound too eager. The limited range of his voice helped. "And how long have you been here?"

"A room in the Sleeping Giant," she answered, as if that would tell him everything he needed to know. "It's an Inn in Riverwood."

"River...wood?" he repeated, trying the word out in his mouth. Why did that sound so familiar? Was it some sort of afterlife for those who loved nature? If so, he felt he'd been put in the wrong part of Aetherius. Had she said _inn?_

"And I've been here since late in the afternoon," the girl added. "To answer your second question: No, it hasn't been a day yet, but I used a Scroll of Dead Thrall to get you back in your body. By the way, a full body of human bones is surprisingly light. I hauled you all the way here from the Keep. That's what you were going to ask next, right?"

In all honesty, he'd been about to ask how long she'd been dead, but he was glad she'd spoken before he could.

"_Let it never be known that General Graves mistook a room in an Inn for the entrance to Sovngarde,"_ he mentally reprimanded himself.

A quick glance behind him revealed that the portal he'd traveled through had actually been an empty wardrobe. He almost swore right there. And did she say Dead _Thrall_? Sweet Divines, that was going to be a while, and now she even had substantial power over his actions!

"You are perceptive as always, my Mistress," the skeleton said evenly. "Not many possess such _incredible_ foresight."

"Vivette," was the girl's only response.

Graves looked at her quizzically. When she just stood there, continuing to smile at him, he figured that his lack of a face was not quite getting his state of confusion across.

"I'm sorry?" he questioned.

"My name," she explained, the smile fading from her lips as her face became flushed.

_Oh_. He nodded, before saying "I don't remember my name as a living man, but I came to be known as Graves when I was... well, as a skeleton."

He cursed silently. He'd quite nearly let it slip that he'd served in Potema's army at some point. The girl had brought him where he wanted to be, more or less, and she seemed ignorant enough, but he decided it might be unwise to alert people to the return of one of the Wolf Queen's finest to the mortal world. He had a feeling Vivette was worse at keeping secrets than she was at Necromancy.

"Oh, I... see," the girl nearly stammered. "Your name sounds very... grave."

"_Oh, Divines, Sithis, Daedric Princes, was that a joke?" _he silently prayed for strength of will. He needed to act the part of an obedient servant for now. "_Hang on. Why do I have to act? Surely the spell should stop me from doing anything that displeases my summoner…_"

"I'm sorry!" Vivette apologized hastily. Had he said that out loud? He was positive he hadn't.

"It's... alright," he said softly, as though muttering. He also found it odd that he didn't feel the need to laugh at her jokes, despite how a minion raised by Necromancy usually felt the compulsion to please their master."May I ask you something?"

"Of course!" she grinned, apparently all too happy at being forgiven. Graves found her radiance almost insufferable. How did this girl become a Necromancer? More importantly, how did she live so long while being so annoying?

"Why didn't you just raise me in the Keep before you left?" he asked. The girl's face turned beet red in what Graves figured to be record time.

"I- I," the girl began, but couldn't seem to finish.

"You, you?" he pressed, hiding his mild amusement. The ability to question her in such a manner also confirmed his suspicions: her control on him was _far_ from absolute. It was practically inexistent, even. Graves knew from experience that using a scroll could never be as good as casting the spell from one's own magicka - his use of scrolls and staves while in the service of the Wolf Queen had taught him that – but why did her grip on him feel so little?

"It… hadn't occurred to me," she whispered so softly that he'd barely understood. It didn't help that his attention was on trying to figure out how free he really was. "It doesn't matter, though, right? You would have sent me to a town to stock up for a journey, anyway."

"True," the skeleton nodded, thoughtful. "But I wouldn't have gone with you. I would have stayed out of town, to avoid being spotted by its inhabitants. I can't imagine the people of Skyrim have changed so much that they would welcome the sight of undead walking around their dwellings."

Vivette's expression seemed to sink at that, but before she could respond, a strange sound seemed to fill the air, like an ethereal hum coming from outside the building. Graves could tell right away that he'd never heard anything like it before. Suddenly, there was a loud rapping at the door, and the voice of a woman Graves couldn't see yelled in a surprisingly even tone.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry but you need to get out! It's a Dragon!"

* * *

**Nevar: **As anyone who has done the main quest of Skyrim should know, the Innkeeper of the Sleeping Giant is Delphine, who isn't exactly your average NPC. If you find anything questionable or seemingly out of place (or if something just plain bothers you) in what I've written, please feel free to shoot me a question. Thank you for reading.


	3. Dragonfire

**Nevar:** I'd just like to say thanks to my reviewers and followers. I think I've gotten a decent number considering how new this fic is and how... not alive the Elder Scrolls fandom seems to be on this site. Special thanks to Y-Ko for pointing out all those little problems that have cropped up so far. They have been corrected. Please enjoy.

* * *

"_So long as you and your heirs wear the Amulet of Kings, than shall this Dragonfire burn -an eternal flame- as a symbol to all men and gods of our faithfulness..." _

- Trials of St. Alessia

* * *

Graves might have narrowed his eyes at the woman on the other side of the door if he thought she could see it (and if he actually could do that). He looked to Vivette, as if the Necromancer could supply him with an answer to his unasked question. Instead of enlightening him, the girl was rapidly stuffing her belongings in a leather backpack. Unable to contain himself, he gave voice to his query.

"What is this Dragon?" he asked. "Some sort of cult or bandit group?"

"No!" Vivette answered without looking at him, frantically trying to stuff a Black Soulgem into her bag. "It's a literal, fire-breathing monster!"

"A Daedroth, then?" Graves offered. Surely she couldn't have meant what she sounded like she was saying.

"No. They're not Daedra. They're the bringers of the end times themselves!" the girl practically shrieked.

"Nonsense," the skeleton said before he could stop himself. "The Dragons have been gone longer than I've been dead."

"Well, they're back now," the girl told him with a certainty in her voice that he'd never seen in her before. "I was attacked by one, on the day I went to the Ritual stone. I just barely made it back to the Keep."

"You're in remarkable shape for someone who almost got torched by Dragonfire, then. Do you mean to tell me this bringer of the end times was stopped by the ruined stone walls of a derelict fortress?" Graves asked with disbelief. "If that was all it took to deter it, it couldn't have been that tough."

"It... lost interest in me, actually," the girl answered as she looked beneath the bed and in the wardrobe for her other things. "I think it started chasing some wolves."

"Dangerous _and_ intelligent," the skeletons muttered. Then he had an idea. "This Dragon- it is made of flesh and blood, yes?"

"I think so," his Mistress told him. "They say there is a hero roaming Skyrim even as we speak, searching for a way to banish them forever. They call him the Dragonborn."

_Dragonborn_. The word was not completely unfamiliar to him. Having served a Septim, he knew they were said to have the blood and souls of the Dragons. He'd always thought it was just something symbolic. The royalty did love to embellish. During his time, no one was even certain that the Dragons had ever existed. The new information reminded him of things he'd wanted to know ever since she'd first called him back to Tamriel. Unfortunately, the girl appeared to be disinclined to answer any more questions. It seemed she was done packing and was about to reach for the door. It was then that the very foundations of the structure seemed to shake as a loud, crunching sound came from the ceiling.

What kind of mess had he been dragged into?

* * *

Vivette was doing her best not to panic. She felt much safer with Graves nearby, as he'd proven himself to be a trustworthy and capable ally to her. Even her family had proven to be less than that in the past. She'd been about to open the door when the thought of her parents made her freeze for a second. She wondered how they were doing in the Hall of the Vigilant amid the Dragon crisis. The Hall was made mostly of wood, after all. Were they safe?

She shook herself back to reality. It would do no one any good if she died in a random Dragon attack. She'd almost opened the door when she realized that there would be no hiding Graves once it was open. She flinched away from the handle and looked back, only to find that the skeleton was nowhere to be seen.

"_Leave now,_" she heard his voice speak, coming from all directions at once. "_Take shelter with the other villagers__._"

"Graves?" she called out. There was no response. What was going on?

Trusting the words of the voice that had spoken, she turned the knob and entered the inn's main lobby. The fires had been left on- a clear sign that everyone who'd been inside had left in a hurry. She ran straight to the door leading outside, worried that the building might catch fire at any time. Vivette turned the knob and opened the door. She was greeted by the sight of utter chaos.

* * *

Graves watched as the town seemed to lose any semblance of order. He'd used a Chameleon spell to turn himself partially invisible- enough that he wouldn't be noticed in the madness that resulted from the Dragon setting fire to what looked to him like the local mill. Most of the townspeople had fled the area it seemed, unless Riverwood really had a population of only three uniformed guards and a Bosmer, as those were the only people he could see besides his Mistress in front of him.

There was warmth in his old bones when he'd seen the Dragon. It was a dreadful, sharp-toothed creature that was so big he wondered how the inn had managed to support its weight. The giant reptile had pushed off of the Inn's roof and soared into the sky, like a legendary monster of myth and song. Of course, to an extent, that's exactly what it was. Graves had lost all fear of death, allowing his thirst for adventure to take almost full control. He scanned the neighborhood for weapons and found what looked like a blacksmith's forge close to the inn. Slipping past the distracted guards who were trying to get a clear shot at the beast, Graves managed to find a wooden hunting bow and some steel arrows. They were less than ideal, but he could change that. He grabbed the arrows by their shafts and worked a modified spell of Ebonyflesh upon the tips, effectively giving the arrows the edge to penetrate the tough-looking scales of the Dragon.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the girl run towards the edge of town. Confident that his anchor to Mundus was relatively safe (at least she wasn't actively trying to get the Dragon's attention), he nocked an arrow and waited for the great lizard to swoop down for another attack.

There was a certain liveliness to him, and for a moment he felt like he was reliving the battles of old. Few mortal men had ever been his match in single combat; he wondered if this immortal beast would prove different. The Dragon descended back to the ground again, this time settling to stand on all fours in the middle of the road. He was barely paying the guards any mind, but he saw them drop their bows and brandish sword and shield, instead. Just like the Legion that had charged his defenses on the day Solitude fell, it seemed these men were eager to see Sovngarde. Then again, he was one to talk, as he took careful aim with his stolen bow, searching for a good spot to shoot the Dragon in. After a little silent deliberation, he settled on shooting its wings.

The two great, bat-like appendages were being used to support the Dragon's weight on the ground. It didn't take someone with a degree from the College of Winterhold to figure out that the material of the wings was easier to pierce, on account of it being thinner. He loosed an arrow and nocked the next one almost immediately before firing it at the other wing. Both projectiles struck true, causing the Dragon to howl in pain as a rather tiny hole was formed in each wing. Graves suspected its protest was more out of surprise than actual pain, however, as the Dragon opened its jaws and flayed two of the guards alive with a river of fire. The skeleton quickly readied three more arrows and let them fly in unison, tearing three more holes in the Dragon's left wing. As he'd suspected, the Dragon merely growled in annoyance that time, no longer caught off guard. Graves bolted away from the blacksmith's forge, firing arrows while on the move. Normally, even he would have found such a maneuver difficult, but the size of his opponent made it very unlikely that he would miss.

The Dragon had finished scorching the last guard and turned its attention towards the source of the arrows. The skeleton wasn't about to make it easy for it. The Chameleon spell made his body partially invisible, and he doubted even the Dragon could see perfectly through the wall of black smoke that it had made. He was sure he could defeat it. Just as he readied more arrows to fire at the Dragon's head, however, the beast pushed off of the ground and soared to the sky faster than Graves thought possible. Cursing, the skeleton ducked under the roof of a wooden house to avoid being spotted, waiting for it to get in range.

His opponent began circling the town, its gaze cast downwards as it hunted for him. Perhaps it wasn't so stupid, after all. Graves could feel that the Chameleon spell was about to wear off, so he stepped out of hiding and took aim- better that he would strike first if he was going to be found anyway. He noted the path the Dragon took in the air as it combed Riverwood, and aimed where he expected it to be in 2 seconds...

A series of loud sounds broke his concentration, as if thunder had roared three times in rapid succession, even though there wasn't a cloud in the sky. However, Graves realized, the Dragon was no longer alone in the space above. Another figure, far smaller than Graves' quarry was rising upwards, as if meaning to engage the flying monster in melee combat. Only Graves' training allowed him to keep his grip on the stolen bow when he realized, much to his shock, that the figure catapulting towards the Dragon looked human.

* * *

The villagers crouched to the ground and covered their heads with their hands, as if that would protect them from the end-bringer's fire. Vivette wondered if Graves would have found the sight funny. He seemed to find futile attempts and mistakes hilarious for some reason. The Breton girl couldn't relate, as she felt mostly pity for these people. It was as if the end of the world itself had come to their peaceful lives, as children clutched their mothers and fathers.

Vivette had fled to the edge of town, positioning herself at the back of the stone archway that guarded one of the two main paths to Riverwood. She'd screamed when she saw the only guards in the town doing their best to hold the Dragon off as the townspeople evacuated. She'd also noticed the Dragon get hurt, its wings being shot by some unseen assailant; while she had no evidence to prove it, she had a hunch that it had been Graves. Her friend had been silent ever since telling her to get to safety, and it was only after she'd reached the boundary of Riverwood that she realized there was something odd about how he'd spoken to her- as if there was a hunger in him.

"But what does a dead man hunger for?" she wondered, muttering softly to herself.

She'd begun to ponder the answer to such a question when the Dragon flew into the air for reasons she could not fathom.

Her philosophical conversation with herself ended as she heard a thunderous cry. It sounded to her like the time the Greybeards had summoned the Dragonborn a week before with a cry that could be heard from all across Skyrim. Only instead of Dovahkiin, this Shout had been something different. Her surprise only grew when she saw something human in shape propel itself through the air, bearing flames in each hand.

The obscure figure was difficult for her to see in the light of the setting sun, but it was clear that whoever it was had grabbed onto the Dragon, holding it in a fiery embrace. The great beast twisted in the air, forcefully trying to dislodge its passenger, but the man did not budge, and soon the Dragon had squirmed too much to maintain its flight, putting itself on a collision course with the ground.

Graves watched as man and Dragon fell through the air, the man maintaining a vice-like grip upon the lizard's neck even as the Dragon's scales began to burn away. Fire had spread over the Dragon's entire body, and yet the flames seemed to leave the man unscathed. _The flames the man had started_, a small voice at the back of his mind reminded him. Was the man actually a mer? He could think of few besides the Dunmer who could stand such heat. As the pair plummeted to the structure with the smith's forge, smashing right through the wooden roof, Graves found that his curiosity had gotten the better of him. After all, what sort of man defeated a Dragon with fire?

The door to the house had been left open- a sure sign that the owners had fled in a hurry. The inside of the wooden house had caught fire, as expected. It would have been weird if the flaming Dragon had made contact with the wooden objects inside and nothing had been set ablaze. What Graves had not been expecting, however, were the two things that were probably not part of the house: The more noticeable one had been the skeletal remains of the Dragon, which had decayed faster than any corpse Graves had ever heard of. The second thing was slowly rising from the ground, clearly unharmed by the crash. Even the dead general who had burned hundreds on the night Solitude had been besieged visibly flinched as the man opened his eyes. Two red eyes that shimmered in the light of the inferno gazed into his blue ones. The largest man he'd ever seen stood before him, wearing a pair of leather pants and a metal gauntlet on each wrist. The man's chest was bare except for an amulet that seemed to glow in the fluttering light of the flames.

"It always bothers me how you worthless monsters still dare to show yourselves, even after you see me destroy giants and Dragons so easily," the man's voice was a deep, throaty rumble that suited his large, muscular frame perfectly. "Not even the Skeevers seem to know any better."

Graves gave no verbal answer. It was better for this man - if he could call it that - to think he was just another weak, mindless thrall. Instead, his answer was to nock another arrow and quickly loose it. The Dragonslayer had no time to react whatsoever. As the ebony-tipped arrow sunk less than an inch into the man's bare chest, however, Graves realized that man had no need to defend himself.

"That actually hurt a little," the man stated flatly, giving no other indication that he'd even felt it as he unceremoniously pulled the arrow out and burned it to a crisp. "You know, most monsters that fight me never realize I'm the Dragonborn before I send them to Oblivion."

Graves found himself backing away slowly from the Dragonborn even as he prepared another arrow. He doubted he could kill this monster of a man even he could fire all the arrows left in his quiver, but it was better than doing nothing. He knew that even his augmented bones wouldn't have survived long against magical flames, however. He stopped short when he heard growling behind him. Daring to glance behind, he found a large, red wolf waiting on the path behind him. He wondered how he'd missed it. The townspeople had also started coming back, carrying buckets of water to put out the fires. They stopped in their tracks to gawk at the skeleton trapped between their hero and one of the largest wolves any of them would ever see.

"You aren't human, are you?" Graves asked softly. "Is this the power of the Dovahkiin?"

"You're one to talk, dead man," the Dragonborn retorted with a cocked eyebrow, seeming only mildly surprised by seeing a talking skeleton. "What are you? Some sort of lich, maybe?"

"Hardly. I'm terrible at the arcane arts," Graves responded, his pupil-less eyes searching for the best means of escape. "What might _you_ be?"

"Well, I can tell you we're both pretty bad at magic," the Dragonborn answered mockingly as flames appeared in each of his hands. "Honest."

"Actually, you'd be lying if you said that," Graves said as he touched a hand to the doorframe.

Suddenly, wooden planks shot from the walls, creating a barrier of thin lumber between him and the Dragonborn. He knew it was never going to hold, but it gave him the moment he needed to quickly turn and shoot the wolf square between the eyes. To his amazement, the animal had managed to react to the shot and duck, the arrow only grazing the top of its head. Cursing, Graves kicked upwards with all the force he could muster. The blow connected with the wolf's head, and he used the window of opportunity to quickly shoot an arrow into the wolf's chest where the Ebony tip sank deeply. The beast let out a howl as it collapsed to its side. There was a crash behind him as the Dragonborn's flaming fist tore through part of the makeshift barrier. The skeleton took it as his signal to run. He dashed past the flock of onlookers who backed away as he passed, except for one. Before he got too far, he projected a message into his Mistress' mind through the bond between Master and Thrall.

"_Do not follow me. Stay in town and learn what you can about this Dragonborn. Be careful. I have a bad feeling about him. It is no longer safe to keep me in Riverwood. I shall contact you as soon as I am able."_

By the time the Dragonborn had broken out the burning house, Graves was already out of sight.

* * *

**Nevar: **Another chapter done. As always, comments on things that could use improvement are always welcome. How do you guys like my Dragonborn? One of my goals for writing this fic was to explore just how powerful the Dovahkiin would be if the Thu'um was more realistic. I feel the game doesn't really give us a clear picture on how devastating Shouts can be. While he only used one here, and it was off-screen, I do plan to show a lot more in the future, not that he'll have all of them of course. He's a little too impatient to go around gathering all the Rotmulaag- Words of Power. Unslaad krosis. A thousand pardons.

**A Note on Graves' Magic:**

The School of Magic Graves used in order to trap the Dragonborn in Alvor's house was Alteration. It has always bothered me how mediocre of a School Alteration is in-game, given the limited amount of things the game lets you alter. The game often mentions (especially in the College of Winterhold) how magic can shape reality, but you rarely see this. If you think about it, Alteration is like Transfiguration from Harry Potter, and that's not exactly something to sneeze at.


End file.
